


'cause you're my home

by ryswell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (so many aus lmao), ASOIAF Rare Pair Week, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-03 22:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryswell/pseuds/ryswell
Summary: My fics for round two of asoiaf rarepair week!





	1. Margaery x Gendry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt snowflakes.

The night Margaery escaped King’s Landing it was snowing. She ought to have pulled her hood or collar up but she hadn’t ever seen snow before - rather, Margaery had seen light snow but always from inside and she had never thought it could be so  _ beautiful. _

 

Of course, she regretted not dressing more appropriately some hours later when her fingers were turning blue. 

 

The knight that came with her was a friend of Garlan’s, an old Fossoway.  _ He won’t survive this _ , she realised, then felt awful for how casually the thought came. She was too used to death.

 

They reached an inn somewhere near the border of the Riverlands and had to rent a single room. The old knight fell asleep quickly, his snores filling the room. Margaery groaned, quite unladylike, but stopped when she heard noises downstairs. Lots of people, cheering and laughing. Was it a celebration? She wondered what people could be celebrating at a time like this. Had the boy who calls himself Rhaegar’s son took King’s Landing? Had Rhaegar’s sister?

 

The risk of invasion and death was the reason she was smuggled out, like a prisoner and not a queen - thrice over.

 

It might be that if she went downstairs she’d be recognised and killed but even so… the fire was dwindling, downstairs there was warmth and food and  _ people.  _ Margaery had never been a risk taker, really, this was her chance. 

 

She pulled on a cloak too big for her and tiptoed out the room, glad the knight was a heavy sleeper.

 

Once she got downstairs she saw she was right about it being a celebration. Men and women were laughing and dancing, ale flowing freely. A stranger passed her a drink of Gods know what. “What are you celebrating?” she asked the man.

 

“Do we need a reason to? We’re still alive, aren’t we? But we’re headed down South to meet the Dragon Queen.”

 

Queen Daenerys, the Mother of Dragons. Margaery had heard of her quite often these days. “Why? Are you forging an alliance?” But he was gone. Then she saw a face she recognised from… somewhere.

 

“By the Lord of Light, Margaery Tyrell?” He gasped. Where did she know him from, court? “I remember seeing you at King Robert’s court once, many years past. The name is Beric Dondarrion.”

 

_ The Lord of Corpses. The one who cannot die. _ Margaery stepped back cautiously, praying to all the gods that he and his men weren’t enemies of her house. 

 

“Don’t worry, we have nothing against the innocents such as yourself. Would you like to be the people’s king?” He asked and Margaery tried to remember all the kings in Westeros these days. Tommen, Stannis, some Greyjoys, and two Targaryens waned the throne.

 

Instead of asking these questions, Margaery followed Lord Beric outside. It was snowing again, more heavily. Not far from the doors stood a tall, burly man. When he turned around Margaery’s hand clutched her chest. His resemblance to Renly was uncanny but Margaery now saw the differences - for one, this man looked more athletic and had none of her first husband’s elegance.

 

“This is King Gendry Baratheon of the Hollow Hill. Gendry, this is Queen Margaery  _ Baratheon. _ ” 

 

Gendry? Was he a cousin - no, Renly had no Baratheon cousins. This could only be one of Robert’s many bastards. “Your father was Robert Baratheon, then?”

 

_ King  _ Gendry had to answer himself for Lord Beric was gone. “Aye,” he answered shortly. “Are you cold?” 

 

Margaery was surprised by the sudden question, though she supposed be only asked because she was shivering. “Well, yes, but - oh.” She stopped because Gendry, awkwardly fumbling like a green boy, pulled off his fur cloak and carefully wrapped it around her shoulders.

 

“They call me the people’s king, after all,” he muttered, and Margaery smiled a little when she saw him blushing. It was still snowing, but her hands were warm underneath the large cloak and she was smiling, honestly, for the first time. 

 

“Every king needs a queen,” Margaery mused quietly, looking out to the snow covered landscape. Gendry coughed, obviously bright red even in the darkness, and she grinned again.

 

_ What’s one more Baratheon?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	2. Daenerys x Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt freezing.

“Winterfell is yours,” Sansa curtsied before the dragon queen, who seemed near otherworldly. Never mind that she had  _ dragons _ , fire-breathing as they were in Old Nan’s wildest stories. 

 

Jon told her he bent the knee, surrendered the North to this dragon queen. “There’s no shame in it,” Jon said, sounding entirely certain, “Torrhen Stark gave up his crown and he had it far longer than I.”

 

“Torrhen’s brother didn’t fight and die to keep his kingdom,” was all she said, barely calm enough to know that she’d end up saying something she’d regret. 

 

Sansa had gone to the godswood then, not to pray so much as to have peace and quiet. In King’s Landing she had often found solace in the godswood - well, a poor attempt at a godswood. It shocked and somewhat annoyed her to find Daenerys Targaryen standing there.

 

Deep down Sansa knew she was annoyed at  _ Jon _ , not Daenerys, but in the moment she wanted to scream at her to leave this holy place, this  _ Stark _ place. 

 

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys greeted with a smile. “I was just admiring your heart tree. The ones I saw in Braavos are nothing compared to it.”

 

_ Leave, leave, leave.  _ “Thank you, my lady. This is a special place.”

 

If it bothered the dragon queen that Sansa gave her the wrong title, she didn’t show it. “Oh, were you coming to pray? I’m not overly religious myself but I understand if you’d like some time alone with your gods.”

 

“They aren’t my gods,” Sansa admitted, “nor are the Seven, really. I was raised with both but I’m not sure I believe in either…” It was something Sansa had never said aloud, her lost faith in the gods. She could only imagine what her mother would have said if she knew. “After everything that’s happened to me… I simply wondered why nobody above thought to help.”

 

Daenerys was quiet for a moment, eyes on the heart tree. Then she nodded. “It’s understandable. I also have gone through some  _ interesting  _ things, many painful. At first I prayed, Lady Sansa, but then I realise who I ought to put my faith in. Myself.”

 

She stood there, taking that in. “You brought dragons back,” Sansa said - praised? “That’s quite godlike. And everyone said the Targaryens were more than men.” They rode dragons, had unique looks, it’s not difficult to see why some believe them to be  _ special _ . Yet they did all the same, Sansa thought - apart from this one.

 

“And I heard rumours that you killed Joffrey then turned into a flying wolf.”

 

They both laughed. Sansa wondered what her father would say about her laughing with a Targaryen. Ned Stark had fought to take down the Targaryen dynasty, Uncle Brandon and Grandfather Rickard both were murdered by King Aerys (being older, Sansa knew their deaths were more gruesome than beheadings), Daenerys’ own father. And Aunt Lyanna, who knows whether she went willingly but she died so far from home. 

 

Yes, their families have a history.

 

But then, Sansa supposed, as did the Starks and Baratheons. That didn’t stop Joffrey from having her father killed or Robb from declaring war on the throne. And Lysa was her  _ aunt _ , that didn’t stop her from trying to throw Sansa through the Moon Door.

 

“Lady Daenerys, I hope you understand why myself and our bannermen are… less than pleased that Jon bent the knee and gave you our kingdom,” Sansa said quietly.

 

“Of course I understand. This is your home… it’s only natural you want to defend it from foreign invaders.”

 

Then Sansa noticed that Daenerys was shivering. “Are you cold, my lady?” Sansa asked. When Daenerys shook her head and shivered again after Sansa couldn’t help but laugh. She swiftly took off her cloak and threw it over the queen. “I had thought Targaryens have fire in their blood.”

 

“We do,” Daenerys insisted, even as she wrapped the cloak tighter around herself. “I must thank you for your hospitality, Lady Sansa.”

 

Sansa bowed her head. Perhaps they aren’t all mad and evil. “So long as the Queen in the South is happy in our realm.”

 

“Queen in the South?” Daenerys asked, brow raised. “Well, after everything it is quite a request to have your kingdom. Ser Barristan told me what my father did to your family… mayhaps I was rash in asking Jon to bend the knee. If the North promises to help me in this war against Cersei - and we survive against the Others…”

 

“Perhaps this is a decision for Jon -“

 

“Did he not give up his right to make decisions? At least for now,” Daenerys questioned, smiling again.

  
Sansa nodded, unable to resist her own smile. “Alright, then. I swear the North will stand by you,  _ Queen  _ Daenerys.” Daenerys bowed her head, wrapping Sansa’s cloak around her shoulders again.  _ Queen Daenerys it is. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... I don’t even know what this is lmao


	3. Edric x Myrcella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in some AU where Aegon VI gets the throne and marries Sansa and Myrcella

Myrcella watched the Stark sisters greet each other with a forlorn expression. She would never have that again, with Joffrey dead and Tommen vanished. How quickly she would give up her crown and Casterly Rock, recently granted to her, to see either of them again (because now that she can look back, wiser and stronger, and see that their mother was not good to Joff either).

 

That night there is a feast - Aegon had claimed that having summer was reason enough to celebrate - and Sansa sat with her siblings so Myrcella led the dancing with Aegon. She thinks she could love him with his golden curls and dark eyes, bright smile and tanned skin. Aegon loves her, Myrcella believes, and likely thinks that love is returned - she accepts every dance, every kiss to offers and even when he asked her to marry him she clapped and grinned through her tears of joy.

 

Except, the tears weren’t just from happiness, were they? Myrcella, a known bastard no matter what Aegon and his council claims, had nowhere else to go, nobody to champion her. This was a marriage for her survival.

 

The song ended and Myrcella went back to her seat, discreetly calling for a servant to fill her cup. She’d love Sansa’s humorous commentary on the visiting lords but would never disturb her when she’s clearly so happy. Technically, they were wives but in reality they’d become something like sisters.

 

“Surely our golden queen isn’t drinking alone while her husband dances with other ladies of the court,” a familiar voice tutted and Myrcella did not need to turn to know it was Edric Baratheon, new Lord of Storm’s End and, officially, her half brother. Once, she was known trueborn and he the bastard but now, well - it was funny how things worked out.

 

He sat in the chair beside her (not Aegon’s, of course) and Myrcella looked at him. Edric’s blue eyes were on King Aegon, dancing with Princess Arianne. He had inherited every Baratheon penny yet he still couldn’t afford a comb for his hair, she mused. The wealth seemed to go to his clothes which reminded her some of Uncle Renly’s fashion tastes. “Do I paint so terrible a picture?” she asked, feigning upset.

 

Edric turned, wearing her father’s smile. “Sister,” he said, emphasising the word, “you could never be any less beautiful than the summer sun itself.” They were good at these games, Myrcella from her courtly upbringing and Edric from being a quick learner. 

 

He was her last brother but Myrcella had never thought about Joff or Tommen this way. Neither could she act on these feelings, her mother had been wed to a king and slept with her brother and Westeros was forever changed. Myrcella took Edric’s hand in hers, holding tight. He seemed to understand what could never be said.

 

One of the Sandsnakes passed and Edric squeezed her hand once and let go. Often at these feasts many would end up outside and Myrcella suggested a walk around the gardens. Edric grinned and she took his arm. Being the high summer, it was still warm and they strolled passed the colourful flower beds and drunkards lazily sipping Arbor Gold. 

 

“Your hair is getting darker,” Edric complemnated, with his usually blush. He was still an awkward boy underneath his titles and Myrcella adored it. “It must have been almost brown when you were in Dorne.”

 

Myrcella smiled, wishing she could lean into him. “It was quite bronze,” she answered. “I’d hoped to get some sort of tan but for the first moon I was red as an apple.”

 

“You poor thing,” he laughed. They’d stopped by a pond, Aegon the Conqueror’s statue towering over them. A marble Joffrey had stood there once. 

 

“It’s no laughing matter,” she chided, even while she beamed. Edric’s eyes, blue as the sky, were focused on her. “What?”

 

He shook his head, cheeks reddening slightly. “Just… well, I’d love to kiss you.” Myrcella smiled but it looked fairly sad. Then Edric leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead. The type of kiss Joff might have given her, or her father. Nothing much to anyone looking but suddenly Myrcella felt like crying. “Curse your husband,” Edric whispered, still close to her.

 

She should’ve reminded him to be quiet - to hear a Baratheon talking so about a Targaryen could never end well - but it was summer, light and peaceful, and for a moment Myrcella could forget everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will make them a thing lmao


	4. Ned x Cersei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt furs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh blame Ari for my obsession with this pairing...

The wind rattled against the wood shutters and Cersei wondered how strong the wind needed to be to blow the castle away. Around her Northerners danced and laughed and shouted and Gods, she’d never hated her father more for giving her hand away to Ned bloody Stark. He’d promised her a crown, instead she had dark furs.    
  
She wished Jaime would come rescue her and take her home but that was an old dream - just a week past he’d wrote her, claiming he was content with his Tully wife and their slobbering, whining son.   
  
Cersei knew she couldn’t count on anyone, not even Jaime, and the thought made her almost sad. The drunk men chanting the Bear and the Maiden Fair around her weren’t helping her mood. Nor was her goodsister. Dacey Mormont’s son was even worse behaved than Jamie’s and had a nasty habit of pulling her hair.    
  
“Would you like to hold Edwyle?” She asked. The babe was named for her husband and had the same eyes as Ned. She ought to have held the child - the feast was in celebration of his birth - but his grey eyes made her think of the children she would eventually have with Ned Stark. The children she doesn’t want with the husband she doesn’t want.   
  
Cersei glanced around the room and saw that Ned was speaking with the Umbers. “Apologies but I feel rather sick. Do excuse me,” she muttered, already getting up.    
  
In her chambers she could still hear the festivities. And it was freezing. Cersei poked at the fire and pulled some furs around her shoulders. It was snowing heavily, laughter could be heard and Cersei felt like screaming. She hated Winterfell and the North, she hated her father for giving her up and she hated Jaime for letting him. She hated Ned Stark, him most of all.   
  
Then - a knock at the door and Ned’s voice. “Cersei, might I come in?” He asked, sounding careful.   
  
“Certainly,” she replied, not moving from where she sat in front of the fire. Behind her Ned stayed standing.   
  
Most husbands would ask after her health but Ned knew her too well. “You ought not to have rushed off in the middle of the feast. You mustn’t forget that my bannermen haven’t warmed to you and you still haven’t made a good impression.” He said it gently but Cersei understood hat he really meant.   
  
Cersei stood, suddenly angry. “Dear husband, pray tell me how that is my fault?”   
  
“You don’t make it any easier, for them or me or you by acting like a child. You sneer at them and run off and gods, Cersei, but I’m trying to be a good husband even though neither of us wanted this marriage yet sometimes I feel like you don’t care in the slightest about it!” Obviously, this had been building up for a time but Ned Stark was hardly the only unhappy one here.   
  
“If you’re to call anyone a child I’d point you towards your bannermen! They treat me with no respect, just like everyone else here, and frankly, have made me feel rather alone in this damned castle. You’re right, neither of us wanted this and perhaps you’re not wrong in thinking you care more about making it pleasant but you’re also not the one who was forced away from your home and everything you knew!”   
  
Stark’s face fell and his eyes hardened. She was a Lannister though and only raised her chin. “I... I did not know you were so lonely, Cersei. Why couldn’t you have just said something?” He asked sadly, their shouting match put to one side. “If my men have made you feel unwelcome I’ll have them dealt with, truly.”   
  
Cersei was divided - one half wanted to slap him for backing down so easily because she loved it when they argued and the other half wanted to kiss him. Starks weren’t know for their vengeance now but she’d learnt the old legends of Northern savages. Cersei imagined they had a similar look in their eye when butchering their enemies as Ned Stark did now.    
She was kissing him before she could help it. After a moment she pulled away, admiring his slight smile. Cersei brought the furs tighter around herself. “I’m quite capable of dealing with hem myself, husband.”    
  
Ned Stark almost laughed at that, watching her carefully. “Of that I have no doubt,” he agreed and Cersei smiled sweetly at him, perhaps not as falsely as she’d like.


	5. Robert A x Tommen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh this is more a Tommen fic but hey ho!

 

It had taken three to arrive in the Vale by ship and three more to ride to the Gates of the Moon. They arrived at night, with only the stars to guide them. When some Royce asked his name Tommen could only smile. “A friend of Lord Arryn,” he had said, voice slightly accented from years in the Free Cities. 

 

However difficult and frustrating the journey upwards to the Eyrie itself was, seeing Robert again made up for it. As boy they’d never been close, for one their mothers kept them apart, and Robert was such a sickly child. Years of secret correspondence and conspiring to rebel brought them closer.

 

During the trek, Tommen had tried to picture what Robert might look like. As a boy he’d been small, dark haired and weak-looking but now he was a  _ man.  _ Tommen didn’t know what Lord Jon Arryn looked like as a boy, had only seen Harrold Hardyng once years past.

 

The greatest imagination in the known world couldn’t prepare Tommen for the man that met him in the Eyrie’s High Hall.  _ Lord  _ Robert was… handsome, with long dark hair and round brown eyes, still fairly lanky and thin from his constant sickness as a child. Yet he had a regal look about him, even in the night robe he wore around his sleeping clothes - the hour was later, after all. Meetings like this couldn’t take place in the light of day. 

 

“Come,” Robert said, “where we might have some privacy.” Tommen followed him into the Crescent Chamber, sat across from him at the table as the guards closed the door. Robert was silent for a long while before he smiled. “It’s been a long while since we last saw each other in the flesh.”

 

Tommen managed a small laugh. He watched the candle between them, blocking out the darkness. “Some ten years?” He pondered aloud. 

 

“Longer,” Robert said, pouring wine into two cups. 

 

It hadn’t taken Tommen long to realise he’d never look at women the way he was taught to. At first he’d thought it wrong, almost everywhere in Westeros it was considered a sin, but he lived mostly in the Free Cities since he was eight and attitudes were… different there.

 

Looking at Robert now, running a hand through his dark hair, sipping his wine, wearing his dark blue robe, Tommen wondered what was so sinful about… appreciating another man’s good looks.

 

“When did we last speak?” Tommen asked, genuinely uncertain. He took a gulp of wine - and didn’t like it. After years of basic rations, this expensive wine wasn’t to his taste.  _ What would my parents think of me.  _

 

“I’m afraid I have trouble recalling. I don’t remember smaller details of my early childhood due to the sickness.” 

 

“Worry not, these things don’t seem awfully important at the time, do they? Besides, given what has happened since then and now… well, my childhood in King’s Landing seems a lifetime ago,” Tommen admitted. For the most part he didn’t miss the capital with its cruelty and treachery - but there were some good things, however few, that made him determined to return. Myrcella’s laughter, Uncle Tyrion’s japes, Uncle Renly’s games, Shireen’s shyness.

 

Besides, Tommen knew that if court then was dangerous it would only get worse. They say King Aegon was a good man, all things considered, but his son had inherited the infamous madness in their line.

 

“I think it might’ve been a tourney, the one for either Myrcella or Uncle Renly’s nameday,” Tommen said suddenly. 

 

His only answer was a careful nod. Robert was looking out to the blackness of night and then - Tommen couldn’t help but laugh, however bitter. “What?” Robert asked, concern and confusion clear on his face.

 

“It’s just… nobody expected us to survive, did they?” It’s strange that this realisation only just hit him. 

 

Tommen had been smuggled out the city before any danger, whether from his mother or Targaryens, could befall him, as were his Uncle Kevan’s final wishes but once he was twelve his guards had either died or left him fending for himself. And Robert hadn’t had it easy - from both parents being murdered, his inheritance nearly stolen, being the lowest of his regents’ concerns until he too had realised that in this world you’ve got to be your own priority.

 

“What’re you now, then, a conquering hero who shall free the realm from corrupt rule?” Robert asked with a smile. The candle was dwindling but Tommen thought the light in Robert’s eyes was brighter anyway.

 

“Indeed.” He lifted his cup up, to toast. “And to you, the Great Lord with the largest army in Westeros.” Robert rolled his eyes but Tommen remembered what he’d said in the letter -  _ if King Aegon isn’t aware of my exact numbers… well, it’s no fault of mine. My maester has dreadful handwriting, after all. _

  
Yet Robert still raised his cup. “To Westeros,” Tommen murmured.  _ And the nights to come. _


	6. Arya x Edric D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt Dorne.

“What is Dorne like?” Arya asked Edric Dayne one day while they camped somewhere in the south of the Riverlands. The stars shone brightly and Arya tried to remember all the shapes Bran had told her they could make.

 

Edric smiled. “It’s… home. I like adventuring with Ser Beric but I miss it a lot. Especially Starfall. The stars are also shining there and it’s always warm but there’s a place at the beach where you can get some shade - you know, so your pale skin wouldn't burn red.”

 

Arya resisted the urge to throw a pebble at him. “I am _not_ pale.”

 

“Whatever you say,” he laughed, “I value my life too much to be on your death list.”

 

“You know about the list?” Arya demanded, bolting upright. Then she remembered the others were asleep and quieted, but only a little. “How?”

 

The damned boy only shrug his shoulders. “You say it every night and I’m Dornish, my lady, I know that any list with Tywin Lannister’s name cannot be a good one.” _I am not a lady_ , she wanted to argue but she stayed quiet. “Also, my aunt Allyria has a list, sort of. Whenever she is especially angry Tywin’s name is known to come up. Usually on the anniversay of Princess Elia and her children’s deaths. And Uncle Arthur and Aunt Ashara’s. I never met them, though.”

 

He said it with the casualness of a boy without his parents, only having an aunt for family. Arya, somehow, felt the need to comfort him. “My aunt and uncle died during the war. Aunt Lyanna died in Dorne -” _where my father killed your uncle_ , she did not add, “- and Uncle Brandon was executed with my grandfather by the Mad King.”

 

“Executed?” Edric asked, looking confused, before schooling his face. “Yes, I heard that too. And about your father.”

 

She appreciated that he did not say he was sorry for the loss or that it would get easier. Lord Eddard was the greatest man in the realms, wiser and kinder than all those in the capital. Sometimes when Arya thought about his death she felt like crying (even though she swore never to cry) not even because she was sad, though she was, but _angry_. The only wrong she could remember her father doing was killing Lady and he only did that because he had to, because stupid King Robert said so.

 

“Why does the Brotherhood fight in the name of King Robert?” she wondered aloud. Edric hardly had an answer - and Arya knew the Dornish opinion on Robert was fairly low.

 

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “That’s something Beric could answer. I do, however, know that when King Robert sat the throne… things weren’t perfect nor even great, but after he died it seemed like everyone started dying, what with the war his brothers are fighting.”  


Robb is fighting too, Arya wanted to snap… but she understood him. “You’re saying he symbolised the peace?” Edric shrugged again. Arya can practically hear Septa Mordane chiding his posture. _She’s dead too_. “It wasn’t really peaceful, though. And war would always come when it was found out that King Robert’s children aren’t his.”

 

“You believe what Stannis says?” Edric asked curiously, shifting closer to the fire.

 

“I’ve never met Stannis but I had the _pleasure_ to meet Queen Cersei and her bratty son Joffrey. I wouldn’t put it past Cersei to have an affair… even with her twin brother.” The thought made her sick. Arya enjoyed playing Come Into My Castle with Bran, and chasing him around the yard, but… no, she’d never do that. The Queen and the Kingslayer did seem close at Winterfell, though. “It would explain why Joffrey is so… as he is - everyone knows what marrying each other did to the Targaryens.”

 

She remembered that the Daynes were supporters of the Targaryens but didn’t apologise - it _was_ truth, after all. Besides, your parents friends aren’t your own. Her father’s friendship with Robert was famous and that didn’t stop Robb from declaring war on Joffrey.

 

“I saw the prince at a tourney. He seemed… spoilt,” Edric noted. That’s one of the nicest insults Arya has for the ‘Baratheon’. “Is it true your sister is to marry him?”

 

Suddenly, Arya’s blood boiled. “ _Never_!” She shouted, unable to stop herself. “I… I will never let that happen. I’m going to get to Robb and he will save Sansa and she’ll come home with us and I will see Bran and Rickon again. We can bury father in his rightful place, Sansa and I might become true sisters…” she didn’t want to admit any of that, scared that telling someone the dream she kept so close to her heart might make it impossible.

 

“You will find her again, and your brothers,” Edric insisted and he sounded so gods damned sure of it that Arya wanted to believe it. “And then you can visit Dorne, perhaps, and see it for yourself.”

  
“That would be nice,” Arya supposed, laying back down to look at the stars, and wondered why Edric Dayne was still smiling at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHhhh I love them!


	7. Jon x Wylla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon with any loud girl is just amazing so...

The festivities in White Harbour’s great hall had everybody laughing and cheering - except, Wylla noticed with her keen eye, Lord Stark’s bastard. After narrowly escaping a dance from Wynafryd’s new Karstark husband, Wylla pushed past some drunk soldiers and sat beside Jon Snow. His brother, Robb, was there too.

 

“Oh, Robb, I thought you ought to know that I just saw Smalljon Umber taking your sister to a corner of the hall…” Wylla told him, the picture of innocence. The Stark heir had the look of pure fury on his face, muttering that  _ he told Smalljon this was not the way to court his sister _ as he got up. 

 

“Is that true?” Jon Snow asked, passing his direwolf from meat below the table.

 

Wylla shrugged, throwing her green braid over her shoulder. “Fortunately for Smalljon, no. How did you know?” She was a good… not liar or manipulator, as Wynafryd insisted, but she had a way of  _ encouraging _ people to do what she wanted.

 

“Bastards are perceptive,” he replied shortly. Wylla mused on this for a moment. She’d heard that bastards grow up quicker and she supposed standing at the side of things means you can watch everything. He said it with a certain sadness, though.

 

Clearly, his bastardry was a hard topic. Usually  _ Wylla _ wasn’t so perceptive but she changed the subject. “That’s a beautiful direwolf you’ve got there. My grandfather’s men are frightened of them.” He chuckled, just a little, and ruffled the wolf’s fur. “What’s he called? I know Sansa’s is named Nymeria - no, that’s Arya’s isn’t it?”

 

“Yes, Nymeria is Arya’s, after the Dornish queen.” Actually, she was Rhoynish. The warrior queen had been a favourite of Wylla’s too. “Sansa’s is Lady. This is Ghost.”

 

Wylla grinned, boldly putting a hand on the head of what the guards called a beast. Ghost nuzzled her hand. “After his fur?”

 

“And his quiet nature,” Jon added, watching her with an almost curious expression on his face.

 

“Perhaps he takes after his owner, in the way of his nature - not his fur.” Wylla barely held in a triumphant grin when Jon Snow blushed the colour of his wolf’s eyes. “Pray tell me, Jon Snow, what is it like to be a bastard?” She asked curiously. The question wasn’t nicely worded but Wylla… she didn’t have her sister’s patience or way with words. _ Better to say sorry and face the consequences later _ .

 

Jon looked away for a moment and Wylla wondered if she’d upset him. “I… It is difficult, sometimes. People make it out as though all bastards are like Daemon Blackfyre… I’m not. I don’t want to steal Robb’s inheritance and I’d make certain my sons never challenge his, and I love the others  _ so _ much, and my father would never leave me with nothing.”

 

“But?” Wylla prompted, quite interested in Jon Snow’s story. 

 

He hesitated and Wylla realised he’d probably never said these things aloud. “I would never speak ill of Lady Stark,” he began, glancing up at her. Not that Lady Catelyn could hope to notice, too busy was she making awkward yet polite conversation with a rather drunk looking Umber. “But she… she is not my mother, never has been. I would like to know my mother - if she still lives.”

 

Hadn’t that been the topic of conversation in the North? Who is the mother of Lord Stark’s bastard. Who made honourable Ned forget his honour? The most popular option was Ashara Dayne. Not that that helped Jon, with her being dead and all. “Would knowing whether she lives help?” Wylla asked. 

 

Jon’s eyes held a sadness in them. “Well… if she were dead, it would explain why she never looked for me.”

 

“Worry not, Jon Snow, there is family in this world for you yet,” Wylla said, taking his hand.  _ And if he weren’t blushing before…  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS HAS BEEN SO FUN!! <3
> 
> Thanks to everyone for hosting this, it’s been a blast!


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